


California Kings

by Rosada



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Constipation, Hate Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosada/pseuds/Rosada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek are notoriously bad at getting along. That is, when they're not busy getting naked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	California Kings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhoNatural](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoNatural/gifts).



For Stiles’ nineteenth birthday, he gets five videogames, two hundred dollars, a tire iron, a leather-bound journal, a book on Celtic symbols, and an argument with Derek. It’s a stupid argument because it’s always a stupid argument between the two of them, content doesn’t actually seem to matter much. There’s just sniping and heated comments and Stiles’ stupid smirk as he stands tall against Derek, unafraid and unashamed.

"Would you just shut the fuck up?" Derek heard himself growl, eyes narrowing on the pale column of Stiles neck as he tilts his head to the side, glaring up at Derek through his lashes. It’s that same snotty look he always seems to have, lip curled ever so slightly over his gleaming white teeth as he sneers at Derek. As though they were equals, as though they could have this fight on level ground.

"Why don’t you make me?” Somewhere between the end of that sentence and the next breath, Derek has pushed himself up against Stiles until he can feel the entirety of his body narrowly separated by their clothes, the heat and rabbit-pulse that’s served to drive him mad lately. He doesn’t know what he’s doing but it’s what his body seems to want so badly he can’t stand it anymore and their mouths come together in what feels like a mutual agreement. It isn’t soft or nice or pleasant, he doesn’t suck gently on Stiles’ soft lower lip. No, he bites it bruised and plump so he can feel it swell against his tongue, licking and taking until Stiles bites his tongue in return. It isn’t sweet, but god it fucking aches all the way back to his bones and he doesn’t want to stop it. If the hand currently clawing at his belt buckle is any indication, Stiles isn’t too interested in stopping either.

For the record, Stiles is the one that initiates the biting. Derek was busy steering them towards the bed and trying to tear Stiles’ shirt off at the same time when pain blossomed down the side of his neck, dragging a hoarse moan out of him as his hips jerk against Stiles’ body. It takes a long minute to realize blunt human teeth are scraping his jaw but then something feral inside him snaps and snarls in return. Oh, he’ll make this brat submit if that’s how he wants to play. Jeans, underwear, socks and shirts all get peeled off and tossed somewhere out of sight so that he can bare Stiles beneath him. There’s no romantic moonlight dusting his skin, only the spray of beauty marks Derek has wished to count a thousand times and the flush of arousal hovering on his skin. Derek knows he’s staring at the way Stiles’ skin shivers under his touch and his muscles bunch, tilting those slim hips upward invitingly. There’s no way he can take his eyes off it. 

"Would you hurry the hell up? I’m missing my own freakin’ party." Stiles grabs Derek’s shoulder and grinds their bodies together in one long, lewd movement, his heat a teasing promise that’s just inches away.

"I’m sure you’ll find plenty of time to suck up later." It’s the best he can come up with at the moment and Stiles snorts, fumbling around in the dresser until he finds condoms and lubricant. Derek rolls one on and looks up to find Stiles panting, two long fingers buried inside himself as his hips rock desperately back onto his hand. His free hand is wrapped around his cock and pumping furiously, the muscles in his forearm twisting to get a better angle. The room suddenly smells like sex and cream and Derek can’t get enough of it. With a groan he moves between Stiles’ thighs, waiting for him to draw out his fingers so Derek can slide his own in and hear Stiles curse his slowness. (He’ll tie those clever hands to the headboard later, make Stiles ride his fingers until he’s begging for a chance to come on Derek’s cock.) 

When they do fit together, it’s all wet heat and Derek has to bite down on Stiles’ collarbone to hold in the moans as he bottoms out. Another bruise is slowly blooming on Stiles’ neck, a red-purple reminder for him that Derek was there. That Derek was slamming inside him and making his entire body shake with the sensation of it, like Stiles was going to fall apart underneath him. It was brutal and sensitive, one moan blending into another and bright sparks of pain shooting across Derek’s shoulders as Stiles raked his nails across the black mark on his back. (They’d heal in seconds. Derek wanted them to stay for hours.)

Stiles kissed him when he came, no gentler than the first time. An ache and a need, satisfaction and bitter success. 

He was thirty minutes late to the party, and neither of them offered explanation. Stiles just ate his cake with a grin on his face, and avoided looking at Derek all evening.

After that, Derek expected it to be the end. They’d played out whatever tension was between them, and that concluded that.

Witches tried to kill them, and Stiles rode Derek while he was still covered in the burgundy paint of their ritual, desecrating it with a smile.

A new deputy came to town and decided to write his number on Stiles’ hand. Derek bent Stiles over a desk and left bruises on both his hipbones. The number was scrubbed off the next day.

Stiles pushed Derek down on his new bed, slid inside him and messed the new sheets. They didn’t talk about it, but afterwards Stiles stared at him as though Derek were made of nebulas and comet dust.

Someone tried to kidnap Stiles. It’s the first time he shoots anybody. Derek held him up to the wall and snaps his hips into him, whispering “mine, mine” over and over until Stiles comes on a choked sob of “yours”.

Stiles was never sweet, soft, or kittenish. There isn’t room amid the lean muscle and the scar on his bicep. He’s rough, demanding, and the first person to actually be honest with Derek.

For his twentieth birthday, Scott buys Stiles all new tires and a detailing for his Jeep. Derek buys Stiles the tattoo he said he wanted one night when they were tangled in the sheets. He says both are meaningful, and he wouldn’t trade them for the world.

A week later, he moans “I love you” into Derek’s shoulder. Derek repeats it when they’re in the shower later, and Stiles does that thing where he makes Derek feel like a galaxy under his gaze.

They start to say it every day, after breakfast, in the car, at the end of arguments, when they need it most. 

Like an insult, like a promise.


End file.
